A Dying Breed, page 31
Roydon dropped his cup down a little too hard on the saucer. ‘Caught up? He’s put himself in the middle of all this. No one’s asked him to stick his nose in.’
Lever held his hand up to silence Roydon, and to Rob’s surprise, it worked. The Ambassador folded his hands together and placed them on the table. He leant towards Rob and lowered his voice. ‘Fazil Jabar was not a good man, Mr Mariscal. He was corrupt. He had deep Taliban connections. Not just sympathies, you understand? He was an important Taliban ally. He was one of the bad guys. There’s no question of that.’ Lever glanced over his shoulder. There was no one there. ‘The operation to remove Jabar was badly handled.’
Rob felt Roydon shift again in his seat, but the man stayed silent and let Lever tell it his way.
‘A number of things went wrong. But that doesn’t mean that the aims and objectives of the operation were wrong. Fazil Jabar was an obstacle between where we are now and a better Afghanistan. A perfectly legitimate target. Do you understand?’
Mariscal nodded.
‘And you also understand that nothing about this can be broadcast or printed or even hinted at. At least for now. There’s too much at stake.’
The Ambassador waited for Rob’s reply. Mariscal stared into his teacup. There were a few loose leaves swilling around at the bottom, but they told him nothing.
Roydon reached over and gave Rob’s shoulder an affectionate shake. ‘He understands. We’re at war. Patriotism trumps journalism at a time like this. Ain’t that right, Rob?’
‘Yes, yes. I understand.’
Mrs Ansari arrived with the whisky. She hooked a few loose strands of hair behind her ear and poured the drink carefully from a decanter into three heavy crystal glasses, which she handed to the men.
Roydon held his glass up to the light and examined it. ‘The tide’s a little far out on this one, darling. Top it up for me, will you?’
The Ambassador’s housekeeper did as requested. Lever waited for Mrs Ansari to withdraw before raising his drink in his guests’ direction. For a moment the men paused, anticipating a toast of some sort, but no one could think of anything to toast and so they just drank. Rob felt the alcohol burn at the back of his throat and then a wave of warmth and sweet relief as the whisky reached his stomach and began to journey through his bloodstream. They sat in silence for a time. Lever refilled the whisky glasses, pouring Rob a full finger more than Roydon or himself. He spoke a little more forcefully now.
‘Let me tell you what my own position is, Mr Mariscal. As far as I’m concerned, Patrick Reid is the number one priority. My job is to get him back, sospes.’
A look of confusion clouded Mariscal’s face. ‘Sospes. Have you forgotten your Latin? Safe and sound. Our objective is the return of Patrick Reid, safe and sound and soon as.’
Lever reached into the pocket of his cream jacket and pulled out a piece of A4 paper folded into four. He flattened it out on the table in front of him and Rob saw that it was a photocopy of the note that had been delivered that morning to the BBC house, together with Karim’s severed head. The words were upside down from where Rob sat, but he had no trouble reading what was written. There was a light breeze blowing now, not enough to bring any relief from the heat but enough to lift the corners of the photocopied note. The Ambassador placed the decanter in the middle of the paper to hold it firm and sat back in his chair. ‘We have this, so at least we’re not flying blind any more. We know what the kidnappers want. A rendezvous with William Carver. A meeting.’
Mariscal sat forward in his seat. ‘With a view to what? Some sort of prisoner exchange, you think?’
Lever shook his head. ‘It doesn’t say that. Just a conversation. And I don’t see what they gain from swapping William for Patrick. One western hostage is as good as any other, I would think, if it was hostage-taking and ransom money they were interested in.’
Roydon stirred. ‘The Taliban don’t take Brits for ransom. They take them to top them. Every time.’
‘Well, regardless of whether that’s true or not, we won’t pay a ransom. It’s out of the question. But there are other things that might be tried, other deals that could be done. At present it seems like the only way to secure Patrick’s safety is by putting William Carver in harm’s way. I’m reluctant to do that, at least until we’ve explored every other option.’
Rob could feel Roydon’s growing unease. ‘What are you talking about? There are no other options.’
‘There are always options, Mr Roydon. And that’s why we’re here, to talk them through.’
‘That’s not why I’m here. I don’t see that there’s anything to talk about. It’s simple. We wait for them to get in touch. Agree to the meeting. We go in, get your bloke back, and kick the living shit out of the other lot. Simple.’
Lever pushed the decanter aside and picked up the photocopied piece of paper again. ‘Mr Roydon, you know as well as I do that we have a rather bad track record with that kind of thing. It’s highly dangerous. The kidnappers get killed, sure, but more often than not, so do the hostages, and that’s the last thing we want.’
Roydon put a finger to his collar, a nervous gesture which Rob remembered seeing once before.
Lever put the note back in his pocket. ‘I’d like to explore diplomatic solutions before you resort to kinetics.’
‘There are no diplomatic solutions. We’re running out of bloody time.’
‘There’s enough time for us at least to explore dialogue, Roydon. Make overtures.’
‘Fine. Fucking fine.’ Roydon necked his whisky and slammed the glass back down. ‘Make your overtures. Sing them a fucking opera, if you like. But make it quick, because when that doesn’t work, I’ll need to agree the meeting, get a special forces operation together and go rescue your bloke.’
The Ambassador folded his arms. ‘It’s agreed, then.’
Roydon looked darkly at Lever, a flicker of a smile on his lips. ‘What are you doing here, Ambassador? In Kabul, I mean? Given that you obviously hate war so much. Why not Paris or Washington or Rome?’ He gave Lever no time to answer. ‘I guess you just weren’t good enough for any of those jobs, were you? Didn’t have the right stuff. And now you’re here, you want to stay. You want to be left alone to enjoy your pretty little garden and a nice bit of Afghan gash.’
Lever was surprisingly quick to his feet. He stood, took a step around Rob and slapped Roydon hard across the cheek. It was such an old-fashioned gesture that Mariscal had to try hard not to smile at the sight of it. Roydon, too, appeared to find it funny. He grinned as he rubbed his slightly reddened cheek, but his eyes were colder than ever.
‘I apologise, Ambassador. Well out of order. Maybe you were right – a bit early for whisky.’
31 Harvard
DATELINE: Hindu Kush, Afghanistan, July 8th
Patrick was under guard and locked inside a room close to Doushki’s chambers. Men delivered three meals a day, but since Karim’s killing he could eat little. He was losing weight fast. The General’s daughter, Noor, visited him on the second evening of his captivity, bringing with her a pile of clothes. She wore a headscarf but no veil. She stood in the doorway a while and stared at Patrick as though deciding whether to enter. Her eyes were a dark amber but as she moved closer their colour seemed changed with the light.
She gave him an even look. ‘You are beginning to smell. If you wear these clothes then I will wash the others. I guessed your size. I think you are more my size than my father’s.’
Patrick looked suspiciously at the folded shirts and trousers she was holding out in front of her. ‘Women’s clothes?’
‘I wear them for hunting. They will not make you look like a woman.’
The following evening she came again, this time bringing with her a small portable black-and-white television. When she plugged it in to the long extension cable she dragged with her, the single light bulb that lit the room dimmed. They sat in near silence watching what Noor explained was a battle between two Afghan poets trying to out-verse each other. In the gaps between these mysterious contests were adverts, several of them of English or American origin but dubbed into Dari. Patrick noticed that Noor paid closer attention to the ad breaks than to the programmes they interrupted, and that she was monitoring Patrick’s reaction to them too. During a breakfast cereal commercial she pointed at the small screen. ‘My father will send me to America, to college. Have you travelled to America?’
Patrick nodded. ‘Yes, a few times. New York, Washington, up and down the West Coast. Never into the middle, the Mid West.’ He spoke quietly, not yet sure how to deal with his visitor, though her presence calmed him.
‘I will go to Harvard. It is on the coast of America?’
‘The East Coast. That’s right. That’s the best place to go. I mean, it’s got a good reputation. I’ve not been there.’
Noor nodded, as though he had said something extremely wise. ‘In America, I will be fat.’
Patrick frowned. ‘Fat? Well, only if you end up living on junk food. They do have salads in America, you don’t have to eat hamburgers. I’m sorry, I don’t really understand.’
Noor shook her head. ‘No. I mean that I see American girls in magazines, on American television. In America I will look fat.’
Patrick smiled. ‘Oh, I see. No, you don’t have to worry about that. All those girls on television are too thin, or ill. Anorexic? In America you will be, you know, exotic? Beautiful.’ He reddened. Noor examined him for signs of sarcasm or insincerity but found none. ‘You’ll have to beat the boys away with a stick,’ he added.
‘I do not understand.’
‘It’s a turn of phrase … A thing people say. My mother used to say it to me when I was a teenager, whenever I was going out for the night. She’d say I was so handsome that I’d have to beat the girls away with a stick.’ Patrick felt his eyes start to sting. Thinking about his mother, his home, was not a good idea. ‘It wasn’t true in my case, but it is in yours. You’ll be beating American boys away with a stick.’
Noor seemed sceptical. ‘My father is going to give me a gun.’
Patrick laughed. ‘Fine, that’ll work too.’
32 Dying Breeds
DATELINE: BBC house, Kabul, Afghanistan, July 8th
William woke late and with a sore head but also a sense of purpose. It was past seven and the sky outside was darkening fast. By the time he read the text saying that the Ambassador could meet him that evening it was too late and he had already decided that there was something else he needed to do first. He had been too passive for too long. Karim deserved better.
He phoned the Embassy residence and left a message on the answerphone saying he would like to visit the next day, whenever was convenient for the Ambassador but not before eleven in the morning. His second call was to London. The duty editor in charge at Today accepted his offer of a morning two-way on the killing of Karim without hesitation.
‘How does seven o nine sound?’
‘Fine, I’ll get the line-up for a quarter to.’
He spent the rest of the evening making notes for the interview; he was determined this would be a fitting tribute to his translator.
The next morning William woke early, ate what was for him a decent breakfast and headed up to the roof of the BBC house with his broadcasting equipment and plenty of time to spare. He unpacked the black plastic flight case, removing the protective foam and lifting the satellite out with both hands and great care. On the back of the sat were printed the words World Communicator and indeed this kit had travelled the world with Carver – he’d had it for five years and dragged it across several continents. The satellite itself was not the shiny white dish that many assumed, but instead three leaves of ugly grey plastic hinged one to the other and propped upright by a basic black stand. The World Communicator looked like an ugly grey tea tray, similar to the sort you have to try to eat a meal off if you’re travelling economy. Carver unfolded the three leaves and pieced the kit together slowly, attaching the dish to its battery using the shoestring-thin wire, and then to his ISDN box and microphone. This done, he gazed up into the Afghan sky. It was not yet ten in the morning but already the sun was burning hot, which was not ideal as the heat radiating from that direction could sometimes interfere with the satellite’s own radiation. He switched the dish on, turned it away from the sun and started moving it around, increasing the elevation and rotating it slowly, waiting for it to latch on to a decent signal. As he did this he whispered to the machine: ‘Come on. Do your thing.’
There were four satellites to choose from, depending on where in the world you happened to be, but William knew that from this Kabul rooftop his best bet was either Atlantic East or Indian Ocean; he didn’t have a compass on him, so he was having to use the less scientific technique of wiggling it around until it beeped. He stared up at the sky. Somewhere up there, approximately twenty-two thousand miles away, was a satellite which was going to bounce his voice, in crystal clear quality, from here to London. Buildings obviously had to be avoided, and thick trees, but there were also other, less predictable hazards. Clouds were a common problem and even birds; he had once been knocked off air by a huge and beautiful sweep of starlings, which had got in between him and the Atlantic West.
‘Hello, this is London. You’re through to Broadcasting House traffic. Who’ve I got?’
‘Hello there Brenda.’
‘Is that Billy Carver’s voice I’m hearing?’
‘It is.’
‘Lovely! Long time, no hear. So what can I do for you today? Are you going live?’
‘Yep. Today programme, seven o nine.’
‘Ah, back sailing on the flagship, Billy, that’s what I like to hear. Better make sure your line’s good and solid, then, shouldn’t we? Tell me about your breakfast.’
‘Okay, Brenda, well this is me and for breakfast I had two toast and butter, one black coffee and four industrial-strength painkillers. How do I sound?’
‘Not bad. Do me a favour, though, will you? Move that dish an inch clockwise.’
‘Better?’
‘No, that’s worse. Move it two inches round the other way now.’
‘Okay, how’s that?’
‘Clear as a bell. I think you’re hitting that Indian Ocean satellite right on the nose.’
‘Thanks, Brenda.’
‘Pleasure. I’ll plug you through, Billy. You go drop a few words in the ear of the nation like the man said.’
‘I’ll do my best.’
‘Attaboy.’
Carver looked at his notes, adjusted his headphones and half listened to the news headlines that came just ahead of his slot. Before he knew it, it was time. He heard a deep Welsh voice read a tightened-up version of the cue he’d sent over last night, and then: ‘Our own William Carver is in Kabul and joins us now …’
The text message Mrs Ansari had sent William suggested that he should come to the residence at five and stay for as long as he wished. She even offered to make up a guest room in case he decided to stay the night. He messaged back thanking her but saying that this would not be necessary. William arrived at five on the dot and she met him at the front door.
‘Mr Carver. My sincere condolences.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Ansari.’
‘The Ambassador and I heard you on the radio today. What you said was very moving.’
She placed her hand beneath his arm as she led him to the library. A fire had been lit, more for comfort than heat, William assumed, because the day was still warm. The Ambassador was sitting in his preferred chair and on the low carved coffee table there were some thick-cut sandwiches, a bowl of sugared almonds and a full bottle of Scotch. Lever got quickly to his feet. ‘Welcome, welcome. I didn’t know whether you’d eaten. Nothing formal, I thought we could just sit here?’
William nodded. ‘Thank you, Ambassador, and thank you for seeing me.’
‘Not at all, Mr Carver, I’m just glad that you could make it. I was so very sorry when I heard the news about your translator, doubly so after I heard you talk about him on the radio today.’ Lever took William’s arm from Mrs Ansari. It seemed that Carver was a fragile thing, being passed from hand to hand. It was not unpleasant, and he allowed himself to be led to the chair opposite Lever’s. The Ambassador waited for William to speak first.
‘They sent a note – I guess you know? They say they want to meet with me.’ William delivered his statements flatly.
‘Yes, I heard. What do you want to do?’
‘I don’t know. I need to get hold of Karim’s family first. Maybe you can help with that?’
Lever nodded. He patted at various trouser and blazer pockets before eventually finding a scrap of yellow notepaper. He flourished it in William’s direction like the winning ticket in the church raffle. ‘I had my people ask around. Had you heard Karim talk about this fellow—’ he strained to read the name written on it ‘—Haroun Rashid?’
‘Yes, I think so.’
‘Good. He’s an Afghan businessman, into all sorts of nefarious activities as far as we can tell, but broadly speaking, seems a decent chap. Karim taught him English. Mrs Ansari spoke to him and he’s promised to get hold of Karim’s family. His aunt died a couple of years back but he says there is some other family scattered around up north.’
‘Thank you, that’s very helpful.’
‘It’s nothing. What we do need to discuss is Patrick and this proposed meeting.’
‘Yes.’
‘What are you thinking?’
‘Well. Nothing very complicated. I wait to hear when and where they want to meet, and I go. What choice is there?’
Lever paused for a long time before he spoke. ‘Let’s say you do that, you go, even if you tell them everything you know, everything they want to hear, it’s more than likely they’ll kill you anyway. You and Patrick. I fear that if I allow a meeting to happen, we’ll end up losing both of you.’
Carver was crouched forwards in his seat, cupping his whisky in front of him with both hands. ‘I know that’s a risk.’
